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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27911635">A Very Merry Three Kings Christmas</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa'>cosmic_medusa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>We Three Kings [23]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:00:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,029</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27911635</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 1 up, Part 2 still incomplete, because I quit my job and life imploded. :)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gordon Walker/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>We Three Kings [23]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1306616</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Very Merry Three Kings Christmas</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>“Cas</em>!” Sam shrieked. There was no manly way to describe the sound of his voice, other than whining at-high-volume.</p><p>“Tattle-taling bitch,” Dean grumbled, stuffing a cookie in his mouth as he exited the kitchen, Sam hot on his heels.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” Cas sighed. Between the two of them, his name had been screamed more in the past two days than it had been in his lifetime.</p><p>“He ate another two!” Sam wailed. “Missouri’s box is down to nine!”</p><p>“That’s not Missouri’s, that’s Ruby’s,” Dean scoffed. “Skanks don’t get cookies.”</p><p>“He stuck his hand in the batter again!”</p><p>“You’ll bake it off.”</p><p>“And he got into the chocolate chips last night and now I don’t have enough white!”</p><p>“Don’t be racist, Sammy.”</p><p>“Stop being a <em>pig</em>!”</p><p>“You’re the one who turned our kitchen into Keeblerville. Think of this as rent.”</p><p>“<em>Cas</em>!”</p><p>“Come with me, Dean,” Cas said, taking his boyfriend by the arm.</p><p>“Giving is the reason for the season!” Dean barked. Cas lead them past their over-the-top Christmas tree that was jammed into the corner and up the steps. He’d been woken early this morning to Sam and Dean bickering and swearing at each other as they wrestled it through the door, and the brothers had been going at full-throttle ever since. He could see how people thought they could be a little off their rockers: one minute they’d be quietly moving in sync; the next, shouting curses and threatening bodily harm; the next laughing and reminiscing over some childhood memory; the next, bitching over some unresolved childhood fight; the next, slumped together on the couch looking like two puppies bedding down.</p><p>Cas could understand how John Winchester, even at his best, felt parenting these two would be a spectacular effort.</p><p>“You can help me wrap gifts,” Cas said when they reached their bedroom.</p><p>“Dude, I don’t want to see what you got me!”</p><p>“<em>Sam’s</em> gifts. I have one for Anna and Peter as well. And Bobby and Ellen.”</p><p>Dean shook his head. His own pile for Sam had originally been in a laundry basket, that turned into two, and now was a heaping stack running up the side of the wall. “I think I may be spoiling the dumb kid,” he admitted.</p><p>“It’s our first year sober,” Cas reminded him. “It should be a celebration.” He decided not to mention that Dean had been spoiling Sam all their lives. Christmases had always consisted of whatever Dean could steal, or scrape money together for, and now that he was employed, Cas knew it gave him enormous pride to be able to buy Sam anything he could ever want or need.</p><p>“Here.”</p><p>“Andy’ll be by any minute to pick up Sammy,” Dean said, eyes glittering suggestively.</p><p>“We have errands to run, Dean.”</p><p>“Bah, humbug.” His boyfriend slid up behind him and slipped his hands under his shirt, leaning to whisper against his throat. “C’mon. You said not while he was staying over, but he won’t be in the house.”</p><p>Cas closed his eyes, smiling and leaning back into his boyfriend’s chest. “You know what?” he murmured, dropping his voice.</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“We should get a new bathroom scrubber while we’re out today.”</p><p>Dean pulled back with a huff. “Prude,” he grumbled. Cas handed him the Scotch tape.</p><p>***</p><p>Andy came bounding up the front walkway, van still puffing out exhaust. “Hey!” he called, hopping in. “Hi Cas, Dean!”</p><p>“These are for you,” Sam said.</p><p>“Thanks!” He dropped his voice. “Hey...my Dad wanted to ride with us. Is that okay? If it’s not, say the word, and he’s out and you’re in. Really. You know him, he won’t care.”</p><p>“That’s fine.” Everyone liked Andy’s Dad, the same way everyone liked Andy. He was laid back, friendly, and was, despite his carefree exterior, deeply devoted to those he cared about. “You’re such a Jewish mother at heart, you know that?”</p><p>“Shutup,” Andy cracked the box and stuck a sugar cookie in his mouth. “Ju’no ma tiggas, ji’no yas.”  Sam laughed. Andy swallowed. “I <em>said</em>—”</p><p>“You know my triggers, I know yours.”</p><p>“That’s a real friend,” Andy grinned. His obnoxious van honked. “Coming!”</p><p>“Bye!” Sam shouted. “Cas, please—”</p><p>“I won’t let him!” Cas called. Dean shouted something but Sam slammed the door before he could hear the full retaliation.</p><p>“Damn, these are good, buddy,” Andy popped another cookie in his mouth.</p><p>“I hoped you’d share them with Tracy.”</p><p>“Tracy’s ‘watching her figure.’ Which is awesome because I get all the extras.” Andy slid open the side of the van. “Sir,” he said, dramatically gesturing, as if ushering Sam into a horse and carriage.</p><p>“Asshole,” he mumbled. “Hi Mr. Gallagher.”</p><p>“Jack, Sam. As in ‘Jack ass.” he grinned. “You look good.”</p><p>“You too, Sir.”</p><p>Andy hopped in the driver’s seat. “Look what we got!”</p><p>“Any chocolate?”</p><p>“No chocolate, Dad, remember?”</p><p>“Give your old man some chocolate.”</p><p>“No transfats. Here.”</p><p>“What the hell is this?”</p><p>“Sugar,” Andy and Sam said at the same time.</p><p>“<em>Sugar</em>,” he grumbled, popping the whole thing I his mouth. “’oly ‘ap. ‘S’awesome!”</p><p>“Don’t be rude,” Andy scolded, pulling away from the curb.</p><p>“Bobby and Ellen said you’re both invited to Christmas dinner at theirs, if you want,” Sam said.</p><p>“Aw, thanks! We have our thing though.”</p><p>“We’ve been closing down Chinese restaurants and the movies before the Jews,” Jack agreed.</p><p>“<em>Dad!”</em></p><p>“Sue me. Single Dad, can’t cook, what else do you do on Christmas? Sam, did I ever tell you how I ended up with him?”</p><p>“Here we go,” Andy sighed, reaching for a cookie.</p><p>“Took my life savings, but all I wanted was a Golden Retriever. A beautiful Golden Retriever I was going to name Andy. Had a whole budget for his shots and grooming and training. I told everyone, I’m getting a dog. They said I wasn’t ready, but I knew I was. So I got the money, had a few drinks and a few joints to steal my nerves, and called the Spencer breeding kennel. Only in my relaxed and altered state, I inadvertently reached the Spence-Chapin adoption agency, and it turned out there was a sale on this rugrat, who’d just turned five, and happened to be named Andy, and the next thing I know, he’s in my house. Least he could use the toilet,” he huffed.</p><p>“Sure thing, Pop. That’s how the drunken, high, single, bluegrass musician took home a son. A case study in the history of the American adoption system.”</p><p>“All these gays bitching about ‘laws’ and how ‘hard it is.’ I got a kid and all I wanted was a mutt,” Mr. Gallagher grumbled, reaching across the seat to scratch his son’s head.</p><p>“<em>Dad</em>!” Andy whined, knocking him away.</p><p>“And after all that, Sam? I <em>still </em>had to buy this pain-in-the-ass a puppy.”</p><p>“Annie. Like Raggedy Anne and Andy.”</p><p>"All the half-off tykes and I get the one into bestiality.”</p><p>“God I <em>hate</em> you.”</p><p>“Well I never <em>wanted </em>you.”</p><p>Sam couldn’t help but grin, even as he felt an ache in his chest. Andy and his Dad had always reminded him of himself and Dean: to outsiders, the barbs they exchanged could seem life-scarring, but to them, it was their own way of expressing affection. At the same time, he could remember times of his own father being well, being <em>sober</em>, and the three of them laughing and teasing one another gently, and it was in these moments he missed his Dad terribly.</p><p>“So,” Andy’s Dad said. “Santa’s brining you new Reeboks, a bunch of geeky books, some jewelry from the ‘tobacco’ store...”</p><p>“Yeah, and you know what? You’re getting coal.”</p><p>“Better to smolder your bones with, my dear.”</p><p>“Jack.”</p><p>“Ass.”</p><p>Sam had to smile. It was the holidays: the time of year to give thanks. It was Christmas, Sam’s first out of rehab, his first free of all things illegal and legal, yet abused. It was the time to give thanks, and Sam sent a silent prayer of thanks for God, the universe, and the great spaghetti monster, for giving him Dean. Dad or not, brother or not, Sam loved hearing two people so lovingly connected and thinking, <em>I have someone like that too</em>.</p><p>He wanted so badly to give Dean something special this year: Cas too, for that matter. Something that said <em>thank you</em> more than cookies—baked with ingredients <em>they’d </em>bought—or hugs—they could give each other those, minus the therapy bills—or books he got with his employee discount. This time last year, he’d been at Rosemount: two months into his treatment, and up and mobile, but still wretchedly depressed, especially since Cas and Dean had spent Christmas day on the ward, bringing him laundry and books and magazines and rubbing his back when he cried because he had nothing to give them.</p><p>“So Sam,” Andy said, smiling in the rearview mirror, “any plan of attack? It’s going to be a little mad in there.”</p><p>“I got a nice picture of Dean and Cas, but I need a frame,” Sam said.</p><p>“You got them to pose?”</p><p>“Nope. Ellen did.” And it <em>was</em> nice: Ellen had nailed them at Thanksgiving, claiming Bobby was in the shot—technically he was, or, at least, his <em>elbow </em>was—but Dean and Cas were the focus. Dean and Cas were both pretty gun-shy when it came to photos in general, and Sam had never been able to get any that were “coupley.” But Dean had slipped a hand onto Cas’ back, and Cas had beamed as he rarely did, and the resulting shot had them both looking warm and happy and <em>close</em>, and Sam couldn’t wait to get it in a nice frame for them.<br/><br/>"We're on a mission," Jack said. "A mission of the magi. A magical magi mission. A mystical magical magi--"<br/><br/>"Yeah, yeah, we get it Pop, you can alliterate."<br/><br/>Mr. Gallagher began to tap his fingers on the window in a slow rhythm, and then began to sing "O Tannenbaum" to the tune of "Oh Canada." Andy let out a whine that was nothing if not puppy-like, and Sam shook his head and resolved to find something to thank Cas for tolerating the antics of himself and Dean.</p><p>***</p><p>Dean added another box of lights to their shopping cart.</p><p>“We’re running out of things to wrap lights around,” Cas said.</p><p>“Bite me.”</p><p>“You’re quite an elf this season.”</p><p>“Knight.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“A Christmas knight. Or magi. Or something badass.”</p><p>“The magi were the wise men who traveled with gifts for the infant Jesus, Dean.”</p><p>“Shutup.” Cas smiled. Dean was a damn sucker for that smile. Had been since he realized Cas could be a real bitch about giving them out. He carefully grabbed some fake berries and garland and avoided his boyfriend’s warm gaze. “This time last year, Sammy was at Rosemount, and I honestly didn’t know if I’d be able to stay on the damn Conestoga. And here we are, and the kid’s healthy, sober sex is awesome, and I feel like...’efling’ it up a bit.”</p><p>A beat. And then Cas said “Growing up, we always had those fake electric candles in the front windows.”</p><p>“Saw them by the lightbulbs.”</p><p>Cas took off around the corner and Dean backed up to take the reins of the cart. Gardland, fake berries, colored lights, dozens of decorations: yeah, it was Christmas as Dean had never done it, and as he and Sam had never <em>had</em> it. He could tell even Cas was excited: sure, the Morgan mansions had been decked to the gills, but this was different. This was a family Christmas, the type they’d had when Jess was still alive, and though they all still missed her, Dean couldn’t have felt closer to her than he did right then, loading up a cart and getting ready to smother their home with even more over-the-top seasonal décor. He could <em>feel</em> Jess beaming at him and squeezing his arm, thanking him for spoiling Sam, proud of him for a year without booze.</p><p>He kinda hoped his Mom was watching too.</p><p>And oh hell, Dean was a badass elf. Dad could join the club.</p><p>Dean turned the corner and nearly ran the cart straight into the last face he <em>ever </em>wanted to see.</p><p>“Whoa,” it snorted, and then paused. “Dean.”</p><p><em>Gordon</em> stuck in Dean’s mouth.</p><p>Gordon, who’d somehow managed to pry out things he’d never told anyone, even Sammy—like the fact that he’d wanted to be a firefighter, or that he still wished his Dad had been at his sixth grade graduation, or that he really <em>had</em> wanted to go to college—<em>the </em>Gordon.</p><p>The Gordon Dean had planned on living with.</p><p>The Gordon Dean had left with a black eye, bloodied mouth, broken nose, and cracked ribs.</p><p>And Goddamn...Gordon was every bit as handsome and strong and intense as Dean remembered him, holding a basket with his favorite after-shave, socks, and some gifts obviously meant for his mother and sister. He was wearing his dark red flannel shirt and no jacket. He never really wore jackets, no matter how cold it got. Mind over matter, Gordon always said. He could smell the sonofabitch across the few feet between them, and it sparked the dark longing that had been the very root of their coupling. From the moment Gordon had bought him a beer, the chemistry between them had practically crackled the air circling their table. They hadn’t made love: they’d had sex, rough and hard and loud and sweaty. Everywhere, at anytime. Even when Gordon was mad and Dean was resentful, they’d worked it out in furious thrusts and groans, like a bad porn.</p><p>One look at Gordon’s dark eyes, one whiff of that aftershave, and Dean could feel that dark heat stir in him once more. If Jess had been hovering nearby earlier, she was damn near <em>possessing</em> him now. He could remember her cornering him one night, after he’d had <em>way </em>too many beers, and telling him what she said Sam was too devoted to say: that Gordon was a manipulative, controlling, emotionally abusive prick.</p><p>He’d called her a dumb blonde rich-bitch-whore out to scam his baby brother. She’d smacked him before bursting into tears.</p><p>Dean had sent her flowers for a week, with hand-written cards pleading for another chance.</p><p>She’d made him cookies when he finally cut off the sonofabitch.</p><p>And here he was. And Dean could <em>feel </em>her, and Cas, and Bobby, and Ellen, and Sam, and hell, even <em>Missouri</em>, united in saying <em>keep him the hell out of your head. </em></p><p>“Expecting company?” Gordon asked, cocking an eyebrow as he gazed into the cart. Gordon thought Christmas was stupid. Nothing but a few extra days to get drunk.</p><p>“Sam’s home,” Dean said, dumbly. <em>I loved you.</em></p><p>“You and Sammy, huh? Just like old times?” Gordon grinned, those flawless teeth beaming. Dean could still feel the scratch of his mustache, the rub of his beard. “Jess leave him?”</p><p><em>Everyone leaves you, Dean. You ever think that may have something to do with </em>you<em>?</em></p><p>Dean felt just like he did back in the old days with his Dad: desperate to please, and utterly unable.</p><p>“Found them,” Cas said, leaning over to drop several boxes of fake electric candles into the cart. “Thanks for waiting. I was worried I’d have to wander around for awhile before I found you.”</p><p>“Dean’s not that complicated. He’s always easily found,” Gordon said.</p><p>
  <em>You’re easy to understand, Dean. Maybe you think you’re worth deconstructing, but you’re not. You need a strong man in your life. You’ve tried to be one and failed. I can help you, if you just stop screwing this up long enough to let me. </em>
</p><p>“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Cas said. Dean didn’t need to look to feel his boyfriend’s smile.</p><p>“Gordon Walker.”</p><p>“Cas Morg—an.” Cas straightened and withdrew his hand quickly. “<em>Doctor</em> Cas Morgan, that is.”</p><p>“’Doctor.’ And where is it you’re practicing medicine?” Gordon’s question was clearly a way of outing Cas’ degree as little more than one in English or Cultural Anthropologies or Media Studies. Dean felt himself arching his back in pride when Cas answered:</p><p>“Currently I’m the one of the resident Emergency Physicians and Associate Surgeons at the Kansas City Melbourne Medical Centers.” Gordon wilted slightly. “But, of course, I hope you haven’t heard of me. Maybe you’ve heard of my Father? Or the rest of the family. The Morgans have a tremendous stake in United States and international healthcare. My father runs the best research hospitals in the country, and my brothers and the family have frequently been featured in Forbes, Time, Newsweek, and as experts in wealth, healthcare, and politics on popular news shows. Michael, Lou, Ralphael, or Gabriel Morgan?”</p><p>Gordon glanced between Dean and Cas, looking completely baffled. “No. I’m afraid—”</p><p>“No worries, I know you’d know them if you saw them. Dean, I know it’s terribly rude, but if we’re going to be ready for Christmas, we should get moving. We have several gatherings to attend,” Cas explained. “I do apologize, I’d so like to hear more about <em>your</em> work. I hope, for your sake of course, we never come across one another in in my Emergency Room.”</p><p>“Of course,” Gordon said shortly. “Dean.”</p><p>Dean just nodded as Gordon moved off, a sharp, jealous snap to his shoulders that used to make Dean dread being alone with him. As soon as he’d rounded a display Cas deflated, slumping against the cart.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said, “I hope you weren’t trying to make peace. You know I hate to talk about my family like that. It’s just—”</p><p>Dean kissed him. He didn’t care that they were in a packed store, or that Gordon was nearby, or that their cart was the gayest on Earth. He didn’t care about jealous exes or rich relatives or alcoholic Fathers.</p><p>“What was that?” Cas gasped.</p><p>“Mistletoe.”</p><p>“Where?”</p><p>“I don’t care,” Dean kissed him again. He didn’t care about anything except he loved his damn family and this, this was the season to prove it.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>Sam paying for a frame for Cas when Andy nearly bowled him over, wild with excitement.</p><p>“Dude,” he gasped. “I got to show you something. <em>Now</em>.”</p><p>“Fine. I just need a—”</p><p>“We don’t need a bag,” Andy said, snatching up the frame and dragging Sam away from the register.</p><p>“Andy!” Sam whined.</p><p>“Dude, you are going to <em>freak</em>.” He shoved Sam forward.</p><p>“I’d better.”</p><p>Andy dragged him to a slender storefront labeled <em>Time After Time</em>. Sam frowned and pouted until Andy dragged him to the glass counter and pointed.</p><p>“It’s Dean’s,” he gasped.</p><p>Sam’s breath hitched. There, in the glass case, was a black, Chevy Impala, exactly like Dena’s. White leather interior, sleek black hood, sharp silver accents and all. Sam couldn’t believed how close such a small replicate could be. He could almost swing open the door and step in, curl on her leather benches and feel Dean’s hand on his head.</p><p>“Tell us about it,” Andy said, even while Sam’s chest ached to reach out and grab it for its brother.</p><p>“It’s the model of the 1967 Chevrolet Impala,” the cashier, a stoic, gray-haired man said. “The original prototype from the dealer. Mint condition.”</p><p>“How’d you get it?”</p><p>“My brother worked the assembly line at Chevy for years. Won it in a Christmas raffle or something.”</p><p>“How much?” Andy asked.</p><p>“350.”</p><p>Sam’s stomach dropped. “Thank you,” he murmured, and stepped toward the door. Andy grabbed his sleeve and hauled him back.</p><p>“We’ll give you 200,” he said.</p><p>“Andy,” Sam hissed.</p><p>“It’s 350,” the shopkeeper said.</p><p>“We’ll give you 200.”</p><p>“It’s <em>mint</em>.”</p><p>“It’s a toy car.”</p><p>The man crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “There aren’t more than ten of these made, and they’re not a toy. They’re a <em>model</em>.”</p><p>“200 for the <em>model</em>.”</p><p>“Andy,” Sam pleaded. “Can I talk to you?”</p><p>The shopkeeper snorted. “Fine. 325.”</p><p>“225.”</p><p>“Three.”</p><p>“Two.”</p><p>“<em>Andy.</em>”</p><p>“250,” Andy said, with a determined point as Sam yanked him sideways.</p><p>“What are you doing?”</p><p>“Haggling. My Dad and I watch this show on the History Channel, with these guys in a pawn shop, where—”</p><p>“I can’t afford that.”</p><p>“Don’t worry.” Andy stepped back toward the counter. Sam yanked him backward. “Dude!”</p><p>“Andy, I can’t <em>afford </em>that.”</p><p>“So I’ll put it on my credit card and you can pay me back.”</p><p>“When? With what?”</p><p>“Whenever. I know you’re good for it.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“What do you mean, no? Did you see that thing? Dean will <em>freak.</em>”</p><p>“My whole damn life is reliant on charity. I’m not taking it from you.”</p><p>Andy softened. “It’s just money, Sam.”</p><p>“It’s not <em>just</em> money! Dean and me—”</p><p>“I know, I know,” his friend laid a calming hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I’m just saying...it’s Christmas. And you’ve been stressed about getting Dean something awesome...there it is. Let me help you get it. I know you’re good for it.”</p><p>“You can’t just have a few hundred bucks sitting on your credit card.”</p><p>“Sure I can.”</p><p>Sam felt a sudden swell of grief. If he’d finished school, he could have bought this on his own. He could have his own credit card. He wouldn’t have been this—</p><p>“Stop it,” Andy snapped, gripping his shoulder. “It’s Christmas and I don’t want you going Scrooge on me.”</p><p>“It’s just—”</p><p>“The thing is, I never really had friends who weren’t stoners, okay? And they don’t want much to do with me now. I’m trying here, man, and your guilt and self-loathing is cramping my whole imaginary day of bonding.”</p><p>Sam felt heat in his face and smiled. “Andy—”</p><p>“Just shutup, quit being a pouty girl and come back with me and applaud while I haggle and we’ll get that thing for Dean and you can help me find something non-stoner related for my Dad and we’ll go to the food court and pretend we didn’t meet in rehab. Okay?”</p><p>Andy looked, for once, less than confident and optimistic. He was flushed and shy and suddenly vulnerable, and hadn’t Sam given up his damn pride ages ago? He could do this. For his friend.</p><p>“You think you can talk him down?” Sam asked. Andy beamed.</p><p>“I’m gonna try. History Channel, dude. They actually have reality shows now! I learned all about it.” He grabbed Sam’s sleeve and hauled him forward. “Just let me do the talking.”</p><p>Sam did: he stood obediently to the side while Andy “haggled,” ending up somewhere close to the original asking price. While Andy got ready to pay, Sam wandered the counter, peering it at what, to him, looked like a lot of clutter: stuff old people stuck up on a shelf, and John Winchester had never had the time for. He wondered what his mother would have collected. Jess had a thing about small boxes: even if she never had anything for them. The top of her dresser had been packed with the things, and she was forever forgetting where she’d put certain pairs of earrings. Sam had bought her a jewelry box for her birthday, and she’d promptly set it on her desk and used it to hold paints. When he’d complained to Becky, her best friend, about it, she’d told him to pick his battles.</p><p>He was almost at the end of the counter when his breath caught, and he hollered “wait!” to Andy and the shopkeeper, who both jumped. “These,” he gasped, pointing to the set of Eastern-looking charms. “Where did they come from?”</p><p>“Friend of mine’s estate,” the shopkeeper said.</p><p>“Did he serve overseas?”</p><p>“In Vietnam.”</p><p>Sam felt dizzy. None of the faces were Dean’s, exactly: they all varied in shape, size, and features. He couldn’t care less. “How much?”</p><p>“For which?”</p><p>“Which is best?” Andy asked, swaggering down the counter. Sam ignored him. At the very end, almost tagged on as an after-thought, was a tiny charm no larger than his thumbnail, was a somber, serious set golden face with carefully cut eyes, a face that reminded him of Cas’s intense, curious, worrying gaze.</p><p>“That one,” he said, and felt no guilt at all about adding it to Andy’s bill.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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